Things Fall Apart
by HufflePuffGirl77
Summary: From the moment he met Sherlock Holmes a vague part of the back of his mind figured one or both of them was going to snuff it before too long.  He's considered every option...except this one.  No Spoilers. M for dark themes and bad language.


**A/N: This was written ages and ages ago in response to a LJ challenge. The prompt I had asked for John, Sherlock, and suicide. Written long before _The Reichenbach Fall_ I think it could fit after that episode with just a few tweaks as far as reactions and conversations go...in my head anyway :). There are dark themes and some pretty stiff language ahead. M just to be safe.**

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><p>From the moment he met Sherlock Holmes a vague part of the back of his mind figured one or both of them was going to snuff it before too long. He's almost been expecting it. After all within the first 24 hours of knowing the world's only "Consulting Detective" he'd shot and killed the man who was trying to kill Sherlock. So early grave? Yeah, more than likely. There were so many possible endings to this wild, mad, wonderful story he'd found himself dumped in the middle of…shooting, stabbing, poison, strangulation, and lets not forget the oh-so-dramatic being blowing into a million smithereens. He's considered every option…except this one.<p>

Oh god…not this one.

Mrs. Hudson is setting a cup of tea on the table in front of him. She says nothing, only reaches out and rests her hand on his cheek for a moment before moving back into the other room. She's surprisingly good in a crisis is Mrs. Hudson. After he'd come home and found—after the police had been called, and Lestrade had arrived, his face grim and pale, and the clean up had begun John couldn't stay in the apartment. He'd just barely made it down the stairs and to the obligingly empty umbrella stand before entire contents of his stomach came back out for inspection. She was standing there when he looked up with a damp rag and a glass of water, tears sliding quietly down her face but without the slightest tremor in her hands. It was only when he'd reached for the water that he found he was shaking like a leaf.

He's been sitting at her kitchen table for at least an hour now, absently picking flakes of dried blood out from underneath his fingernails and trying to figure out where the hell it all went wrong. He'd just gone out for milk and beans…that was all…fucking milk and beans. He'd been gone 20, 30 minutes tops. When he'd left Sherlock was picking away at that god-awful violin when he'd come home the apartment had been pitch black except for the bathroom where the hard edge of the florescent light enhanced the abstract patterns created on the wall when most intelligent man in London picked up a gun blew his own brains out.

He's shaking again…but this time with rage. He lashes out and sweeps the teacup off the table taking grim satisfaction in the sound of exploding china. Sherlock FUCKING Holmes. Who the hell does he think he is? Of all the god-damned irresponsible—shitty things to do.

He's pretty sure he's never hated anyone this much in his entire life.

Lestrade comes down to talk to him…asks the usual questions…had he noticed any unusual behavior (define unusual)…had Sherlock said anything to make him suspect (if he had do you think I would have gone out?)…was there any reason to believe there may have been foul play involved (you tell me, you're the bloody police). There is a long moment of hesitation. Finally Lestrade clears his throat and tells him they'll talk more in the morning.

He knows he should be kinder to the DI…knows he is suffering too…but the best he can manage is to say he'll come down to the station first thing. He has no extra breath for empty comfort just now.

Mrs. Hudson sticks her head in and says she's going to bed. If she sees the broken cup she doesn't bring it up, just tells him she's made up the sofa in front room and he's to wake her if he needs anything, anything at all.

He's still sitting in the same place several hours later when Mycroft Holmes lowers himself soundlessly into the chair opposite. For a long moment there is silence. Then Mycroft begins to speak.

"My brother, Doctor Watson" he says in a tone that he might use when addressing a colleague about an affair of state…not the death of his sole remaining family member. "was always a difficult man to understand…he was stubborn, arrogant, self absorbed and incapable of showing much of anything in the way of affection, but I hope you know he cared for you quite a bit." John can't stop the snort of derision that escapes into the air between them.

"Yeah, he sure proved that tonight. 'John wont you just pop down to the corner market so for some milk I think I'd fancy a cup of tea…John wont you just step out for a moment, I'd like to see if the décor is improved by my own blood splatter. We must be sure to document the results!'"

"Try not to judge him to harshly Doctor. Sherlock—" There is a momentary hitch in the older man's breathing and John bites down on the inside of his lip until he tastes blood because if Mycroft cracks he's pretty sure he himself will explode into a thousand pieces and he's pretty sure there's no coming back from that.

"Sherlock," his brother forges on steadily "never did anything that was not the direct result of exhaustive thought and preplanning. Take comfort John in the knowledge that there was noting in this world that you or I or the gods themselves could have said or done to change his mind."

He says nothing because really what is there to say? He knows its true. Knowing doesn't help.

"I hope" Says Mycroft standing a noiselessly as he sat "very much that our paths will cross again Doctor Watson." It takes every ounce of strength he has left to look up into the eyes that are so very much like Sherlock's and say.

"You'll tell me when the service is?"

"Of course." John drops his gaze back to the empty table.

"Thank you." There is no answer this time, the room is empty once again.

It's nearly dawn when he stands stiffly, cleans up the broken teacup, leaves an apologetic note and takes the stairs back up to 221b. There's no point in not sleeping in his own bed but on his way by he closes the door to the first floor bathroom and locks it. He'll never use that room again.

Stretched out on top of the covers, he feels his body begin to relax in spite of himself. As sleep rushes up to meet him he decides that when he wakes tomorrow to the crushing weight of guilt and grief he'll try to handle the way Sherlock would, with cool logic and impassive reasoning. Maybe that way he'll begin to understand who Sherlock was…and maybe someday, he just might learn how to forgive him.


End file.
